WP - 010 - Gotham's Protector

Heh heh heh. Hah. Ha Ha Ha!

Wake up, Bruce. It's time to go to work. I know you can hear me out there, Bruce. I can feel you getting complacent. But it's more than a feeling. I know, Bruce. I see you. The Janitor, Oscar - the one you busted six years ago, trying to boost televisions from the Gotham Mall...

Oscar had his cell phone on him tonight. He was watching you on that show. The one about rich people who aren't caped vigilantes. I saw you. Silly, Bruce. I saw you with that Blonde. You really think you can just DO that? Just be Normal? Very stupid, Bruce. Deep breaths now. In... Out... In... Out...

This is going to hurt.

In... I shouldn't have started that toss-up with Eddie in group today. I didn't think a few days in the jacket would be much of a hassle. If I'd known you were slipping - I should've realized.

Ouch!

It doesn't get any easier, Bruce. Dislocating a shoulder. I wasn't born with double joints, you know. I mean... of course YOU know. I'm not even particularly flexible. This isn't talent, Bruce. It's skill. You can hear me out there, can't you? Of course you can. Do you see what you've done for me? How you've helped mold me. You've made me better, Bruce. But you'd better wrap things up with your little Missy. I'm coming for you.

Wriggling out of the jacket has gotten to be pretty easy, actually. Slow breaths again. It's resetting the shoulder - That's the part that really sucks. Heh heh. No, Bruce. It doesn't quite suck out all the fun. Ack! I wonder if you're going to be dumb enough to try and lie down with this one? I hope I can get out in time to remind you. I hope... This is what you give me, Bruce.Hope. Can you hear me? I might have to kill this one.

Yes, Bruce, yes. The key. I took the key from Tetch. He got it off one of the guards - um - Wilson? Yes. I better tell you about Wilson tonight. If a two-bit buffoon like Hatter can get his hands on the key, Wilson's going to have to go.

Cash is on tonight. Better avoid Cash. He was in a mood this afternoon. He's not one you'll deal with, though. He's a good one. I should kill him. I wonder if I could push him to be more like you? No... Like the Birdbrain, maybe. But there's no one like you, Bruce.

Shh... Be quite now. Don't want the alarms going off until I'm over the wall. What? Shh. No. I know I can't get over the wall, it's a metaphor, you nincompoop. You really are slipping aren't you? I've been in here too long. I think you're actually starting to get dumber.

No, no. Don't be like that. I only call you names because I care. I can't tell you how mad I was when I saw you wearing your mask. Pretending you were one of THEM! What's got into you!?!

Ouch!

No. No, it's... I'm alright. I punched the metal of the drain pipe. Pretty dumb of me, really. Your complacency is catching. They probably heard that at the front gate. This might be the last time I get to use this tunnel. It's a shame.

Bruce, you do not want to know how much I had to pay Croc to rig this grate so I could open it and get out when I need to. When you need me.

I hope they didn't hear me. Don't want you waking up too soon. We have to get you back on the streets, Bruce; but you must be punished, I think. You have to remember about the City, Bruce. You have to remember Gotham.

And I'm going to remind you tonight. You can't rest, boy. You can't just... Date. You can't hide behind your millionaire playboy mask and think I'm just going to lie around in my cell and let you pretend you're one of them?

You're not one of them, Bruce. You're the hero. How many people are dying tonight because you wanted to be one of them - even for one night? How many of the good ones are dead in the street already because You Forgot What You Are! This city is a cesspit, Bruce. How many more are going to die before you remember, and we dance our little dance again?

No. Gotham needs it's protector, Bruce. Gotham needs it's Dark Knight. Heh heh.

You're going to remember tonight. It's going to hurt you a lot more than it'll hurt me; but you're going to remember. And then our city will be safe again.

Can you hear me, Bruce? You will. And you're going to remember, Bruce.

Where the brave shall live

I don't really know what it was like before.  Dying.  Discovering that there's more.  The Ride of the Valkyrie.  I don't think the Meadhall has changed - at least - it looks like a Viking Meadhall to me.  On the whole it's like this giant party on the front lines of a battle we're going to fight in the morning, only morning never seems to come.  It's all training and drinking and eating...  Holy shit, the food here is so good!

I never really studied vikings or mythology.  I mean, I watched that show on the History Channel.  My brother DVR'd it and we watched it together the last time I was stateside.

Huh.  I guess I'll never be stateside again.  I wonder why that never occurred to me before.  I hope my brother dies in glorious battle and gets chosen.

Okay, so here's how I died:

In Battle!

Sorry.  Whenever anyone here asks you how you died, the answer is always, "IN BATTLE!"  It's kind of stupid, I know.  We all died in battle.  It's literally the only way to get here.  It's just one of those stupid things *Einherjar* do.  It's like a motivational check - the closest thing I can think of back home in *Midgardr*, would be "oorah."

Also, Einherjar...  That's what we call ourselves.  The one warrior.  Each of us is the One Warrior.  The Single Soldier, the once fighters.

Yeah, I'm learning the Old Norse.  You have to.  There are so many Einherjar - brothers - here from all over the world.  All across the vast expanse of history; and the gods sure as hell aren't going to waste their time learning all the tongues of men.  So the Norse tends to be the common language around here.  I mean...

There are cliques, sure.  But it isn't like High School.  Isn't even like the Corps.  It's fluid, I guess.

I served with this old badass Gunny my first tour in Iraq - **GySgt Starke**.  He was one of the first of the Einherjar to greet me in the Meadhall.  He was in tight with the old-school Americans, his fucking Grandfather is here (how awesome would that be?).  Anyway, I usually end up hanging out with a bunch of American and British World War Vets.  I like to drink with these Hessians, too.  Donar - their unofficial leader - took a liking to me when I called him out on his bullshit this one time, and the Hessians all laugh at the way modern German sounds on my tongue - we communicate alright, though.  I guess I also hang out with these Afghanis sometimes, after I ran into a soldier I sent here myself a few months before punching my own ticket.

**Aarif** is a fucking riot, man.  So funny.  His English is pretty good - a lot better than my Norse, anyway.  He comes running up to me about a week after I got here, and he just punches the shit out of me.  We start fighting, and I didn't have any idea what the hell was going on; but I fought back.  I mean... It's what you do, right?

So here I am in Nordic Heaven fighting for my life against this Afghan Muslim shouting "Allahu Akbar," and shit - shouting about "you killed me, you American sonofabitch," and "why did you send me to Valhalla," - and don't you ever tell him I said it, but he was beating the shit out of me.  And he had me in this crazy leg lock and he just starts laughing, and brushing away my strikes and telling me to calm down.  **Gunny Starke** was there then, laughing.  I was so confused.

We drank mead together, and none of it mattered any more.  I mean, it never mattered, really.  We fight, we died.  Now we're brothers.  Once upon a time, we were Fighters.  I killed this man, **Aarif** - punched his ticket on the Valhalla Express - and somewhere out there, the man - the men - who punched my ticket will show up, if they're lucky.  Maybe the man who killed me is here already.  I didn't get a good look at them, though.

Most of us don't.  And even if you do know who killed you, maybe they won't even show up.  Some go to **Freyja's** war fields.  And the poor bastards who don't get to die in battle - the ones who live long enough to grow old, or sick?  We don't mourn the lost.  We live forever.

But it was real depressing to find out that most of my heroes aren't here.  I don't want to talk about that.  We don't mourn the lost.

So I died in battle.  IED.  Pretty cunning trap, really.  I mean, I think we were on point - heads in the game.  Riding patrol north of Jalalabad, Croft says something about getting laid, Benjamen tells him to shut up and **BOOM**.

The chaos of war.  Ears ringing.  Head foggy and lost and clear and focused all at the same time.  Checking injuries, checking our brothers.  Frankenhummer's dead.  We pile out and assess.  Then the shooting starts.

I couldn't tell you if I was the first or even the only one to go down.  The initial impact hit my body armor.  It's like being punched in the chest.  I got riddled with bullets, though. Shoulder, arm, twice, leg.  The one in my head shut it all down.  I was cold.  There was a motorcycle or something - like one of the big Harleys.  I don't know.  Maybe the engine on the humvee was still going.  I think I tried to raise my rifle; but there was a big piece of my wrist missing when I looked down at the hand holding it.  I couldn't grip my weapon right.  I didn't hear it drop in the dirt; but I remember thinking about how pissed Staff Sergeant Burroughs was gonna be.  Disrespecting the rifle.  I fell down.

That motorcycle was getting louder.  Everything was kind of grey.  Or red.  Hazy.  I was trying to stand up.  There was gunfire around us, and I could here my brothers shouting something - yelling at me, I think - but it was like listening from underwater.

"I'm good," I said, lying.  "Drive on."  They didn't hear me.  I mean, I get it now.  I was already dead.
       
Her name is **Alex** - uh - *Something*.  As the sounds of battle faded and her bike got louder and closer, I found some strength.  I pushed myself up to my knees in time to see her ride up on me.  Glorious.

The bike was huge.  Way too big for her 5-foot frame, with these big ape-hangers and all this chrome and steel that didn't belong in the desert.  At first I thought she was American - she was wearing desert fatigues, but she was out of uniform.  No armor, no battle rattle.  Long-ass blonde hair in this sexy braid that went all the way down her back.  Just a rifle slung over her shoulder, sunglasses, these big, goofy leather bracers.  This big ass sword was strapped to her hog, like something out of one of my sister's anime movies.  Even in steel toes, her feet were tiny.

"*Get up,*" she said, climbing off the motorbike.  She pulled a black bottle from one of the saddlebags, and tossed it to me.  "*Drink*."

I did as I was told.  The fighting seemed to have stopped, we were just standing there in the desert wreckage.  The sounds of my brothers arguing about something, yelling at someone - I think they were trying wake him up.  Damn.  Someone else must've gotten hit.  It was all kind of distant, though.

The bottle was ceramic, stoppered with a cork.  It was sweet, like apples or honey.  Kind of tart too.  Good.  That was the first time I ever drank Mjød.  It's like bread and butter now.  Mother's Milk.  I took another big swig, and noticed the girl looking at me.

I wiped my mouth on the back of my hand.  My wrist...

I still hadn't figured it out, really.  Until I saw that my wrist was fine.  I asked the Valkyrie if she was an angel; but she laughed at that.  That was how I learned what a Valkyrie was. We rode across the desert on her monster bike.  We rode through forests that couldn't exist - vast and beautiful and untouched by the 21st century, and along a beach at one point - before turning inland and then up into the mountains.

The Meadhall - it's not just a Meadhall.  It's this whole massive compound.  **Alex** told me it isn't the only one.  Isn't even the biggest.  It's ours though.  Barracks, Mess, Armory, Stables, Garage.  We have these bivouac party stations set up all over.

Most of my time is spent training with weapons I haven't imagined using since I was 9.  Swords and axes.  Shields.  Fucking spears.  The new guys help the old guys get better with modern tech.  The old guys help the new guys improve their archaic weapon skills.

This guy Tanaka-San.  He says he's a farmer; and I know the Samurai in the East Field don't like him; but I swear to god - or Odin... whatever - I swear he's a fucking real life ninja!  He's teaching me how to fight with whatever.  A bunch of us spend time up on the high plain learning how to look at every tool as a weapon.  Recognizing its effectiveness, it's weakness.  Internalizing principles that will allow us to use any weapon or tool or rock or stick as if we were born to it.

But here's the thing that scares me - the thing we shout down with our drinking and revelry.  Here's the thing that wakes me screaming in the night.

What the hell are we fighting.  Ragnarok is coming.  What the hell is Ragnarok?  We have here the bravest, the mightiest, the quickest, the strongest warriors in the entire history of humanity - and all we do is train and practice and drink and party.  Then we train some more.

It seems like a party, I threw that in there, because I don't want you to get the wrong idea.  It's not a bummer.  But every warrior here.  Every Einharjar is learning how to be a better fighter.  We distract ourselves with mead and Valkyries (when they'll have us), and we boast and talk and lie to ourselves that we're not scared shitless; but what the hell are we doing this for?  And what's going to happen when it's over?  What's going to happen when we win?

Because I don't ever want this to end.

----------------------------------------

WP - 008 - Gadget

Every day, I go to the "new" page of reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts (I apologize in advance if you were previously unaware of Reddit) where I select the latest prompt - whatever it is - and write it out.  I've decided to post those here.  Hope you enjoy it.  Today's Story is:

GADGET

<blockquote>[EU] After years of trusting his cybernetic additions, he feels them betraying him, sees the blood on his hands, and can only think, "Stop stop gadget..."</blockquote>

It can be hard to look at yourself with honest eyes - to admit your faults.  It tears you up inside - owning up to your failures.  I won't lie to you and try to convince you that I didn't know what a screw-up I was back then.  I won't tell you I didn't love the praise, though.  And now that Penny's dead.

I switched off my data reception and disabled the WiFi upgrade.  This old empty warehouse is quiet.  Secluded.  If Brain was still around, he'd probably come over here and put his head in my lap.  I could pet him...

...If the servo-actuator in the Gadgetarms weren't malfunctioning.  He probably would've been disgusted with all this anyway.  The left arm is still twitching.

I can feel the water from that broken pipe seeping through the seat of my trousers.  Claw hasn't moved in - 32 minutes and 14 seconds - according to the Gadgetbrain Onboard Chronometer.  All those times he tried to kill me.  All the times he tried to hurt me.  To hurt Penny.

I guess the servos in the left hand are still working after all.  I hear the broken bones in his neck grind against each other as the Gadgetarm twitches.  Claw lies 7.82 feet away from me.  The Gadgetarm won't contract back into its socket.  The one on the right won't do anything.  Not with the bullet lodged in the shoulder actuator.

Wowsers.  I really fucked this one up, Chief.

The Gadgetlegs aren't much use, either.  My left foot is vibrating, and the right one seems to have been disconnected from its coupling.  I think it fell off - held in place by the pants leg.  There's a terrible pain in all the diodes down my left side.  I think there's a lot of blood mixed in with the oil and coolant.

"I think I'm going to die here, Penny."  The voice is choked, weak.  It doesn't sound like me.  How much of John Brown is in that statement, and how much of the Machine?  The two never were much different until today.

John Brown came here to arrest Dr. Claw.  John Brown was furious - but mostly with himself.  All these years combating M.A.D. and Claw's ridiculous schemes.  How could John Brown have done things differently?  What if I'd stopped listening to the hype and the press and the accolades from the Department, and really paid attention? Could I have stopped this?

I know I could have.  John Brown could have.  I have the most advanced Robotics and cybernetic systems available - some of them not even - technically - legal, without the Patriot Act and the Quimby Initiative.

I should have been a better role model -

I should've been a better father.  Penny would still be alive, if I'd come here and done this sooner.  Day One.  Right out the door.  Ditch the cuffs, break out the .45.

But I didn't come here to kill anyone.  Did I?

No.  I can't believe that.  John Brown came here to arrest Claw.  It was the Machine that did all this.  Claw tried his worst to stop it.  Agent after Agent fell beneath the might of Gadget.  I couldn't even count the dead.  After the first few years, they all sort of look exactly the same, don't they?  How could I differentiate between them while I was snapping their spines and crushing their skulls?

How could I let the Machine do this?

They're all dead now.  My niece is not coming back to me, and none of the amazing things she did - none of the great and heroic deeds I took the credit for will be remembered.

They'll all be swept under the rug and replaced with "psychotic cyborg slaughters dozens."  If the tear ducts weren't automatic, I think I would be weeping now.  It's cold.

I'm definitely dying now.  Back-up systems have kicked in.  I no longer have access to the communication systems.  WiFi boots up, data.  I had no idea that subroutine existed.  Hidden.  I mean...

Of course it does.  Whatever happens to John Brown, the technology's good.  I can hear the locator beacon.  They'll be coming for the tech.  Maybe they can put it into a competent officer this time.  Equip someone more deserving.  I wish there was some way I could warn them.  Tell them what to look out for...

There's a rudimentary processor in the back of the Gadgetbrain.  It records everything - keeps Inspector Gadget honest, I guess.  Or it's supposed to.  If I could partition...

There.

<hr />
<hr />

<i>"Listen to me.  This is the most important thing you have to know about all these changes they've made to your body.

"None of it matters.  The enhanced vision and hearing, the waldo arms, the telescoping appendages, or the top-secret Gadgetphone.  It's a bunch of props.  Tools.

"Whoever you are... you're not a superhero.  You're not even a supercop.  Not because of the gadgets, anyway.  The only way you can be a good cop is to be a good cop.  Pay attention to the things around you.  Pay attention to the people.  Protect and Serve.  Remember that first.

"Be mindful.  Listen to your family and friends.  Don't let all this bullshit go to your head.  Truth be told, you wouldn't have been a very good cop in the first place - they won't be putting all this tech into a healthy body, so you must've done something to screw it all up.  I can't see how you could be here, if you hadn't.

"But maybe that's my ego getting in the way, because I was such a screw up.

"Well, don't let that be your defining trait.  Don't fuck it up, like I did.  Stop.  Learn how to control the Machine.  Don't let the Gadgetbrain control you.  Ask for help when you need it.  Acting like you've got everything under control, when you haven't, is just going to get someone killed.

"And speaking of that.  Cherish your family.  Love the ones who love you.  And keep them away from this.  You are a cop.  Not some silly crime-fighter on a mad-cap adventure.  You don't need sidekicks.  Don't be stupid.

"I was going to tell you about...

"about some of the unex... unexpected...  un... side effects.  No clock... no... time, I guess.

"It's over.  I'm dying Penny.  I'm sor... I'm.... I'm..., </i>

<B>END OF LINE</B>

<hr />
<hr />

"Officer?"

She shook her head.  The compensaters in her artificial tear ducts were failing.  Her eyes were wet.  "It's Detective," she said.  "Detective Gadget.  And I'm fine.  I found an old program hiding in the crime scene protocols of the Gadgetbrain OS."  She wiped her eyes.

He eyed her nervously, "anything we need to report?"  All the street cops were nervous around her.  It was to be expected.  She'd only been on the street for a few months; and they made her a detective right off the bat, even though she was still a recruit when... when *it* happened.

"It's nothing.  I deleted it.  I'll debrief Chief Quimby, when we're finished here.  Show me what we've got."  She moved the file to her personal SD card and encrypted it.

The officer started across the sidewalk and into the alley and the fresh crime scene.  Detective Gadget looked around, the Gadgetbrain absently recording her surroundings, in case something useful escaped her notice, and could be identified later.  She turned her attention southwest.  14.8 miles in that direction was the ruin of the old M.A.D. Warehouse.

"Goodbye, Uncle Gadget," she whispered somberly, and turned to follow the officer into the alley.

WP 003 - Untitled

Every day, I go to "new" page of reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts (I apologize in advance if you were previously unaware of Reddit) where I select the latest prompt - whatever it is - and write it out.  I've decided to post those here.  Hope you enjoy it.  Today's Story is:

UNTITLED

In the darkness below, the ancient beast stirred and woke - struggling against the oppressive black encasing it. Muscles older than modern culture and atrophied from millenia asleep beneath the earth ached in protest as the Ancient pushed against the confines of its tomb. And again when the gargantuan beast tried to draw breath to light the world in flame it drew in only dust and soot and the stale air of this too-small cavern formed around its horrible form.

The Ancient's roar of protest came out only as a moan, low and dark. The great beast knew it had awakened only to die. What power was left in this world was not enough to sustain it. What power was left within was already seeping out into the earth.

I am dying, the Ancient thought - its mind awash in language and imagery long ago lost to the minds of men. And in its thoughts there were stars.

In ages long past, when the Ancient and all its kind had been rulers of this world, and so many like it, the stars had offered comfort. And somewhere deep within the creature's frail, breaking form, it found the Will to push. To dig.

Wings, long tattered and weakened from so long out of the sky, strained to against the earth. It's great tail, like the swaying trunk of a giant redwood, uncoiled and pushed. Limbs larger than most men's imagination pressed through the pain of disuse and the Ancient began to dig.

The Stars. If I am to die, it will be beneath the Stars.

The candles flickered in the darkness. The low song of the wind chimes by the window filled Marten with a sense that this was right. He knelt on the floor of his dorm room in the center of a white pentagram, marked out with masking tape.

Dipping first one hand and then another into the cauldron sitting at the north of his magic circle, he withdrew the warm oil and anointed his forehead and then each of his Chakras - the mystical points of convergence in his body.

"Spirits of Earth," he said, picking up a bit of earth taken from the garden outside and laying it just inside the circle, past the cauldron, "I welcome thee."

The earth trembled; and Marten's momentary panic was instantly shut down with a broad smile. It was real. He returned to the center of the circle and lit the incense, taking it to the eastern edge of the circle, "Spirits of Air," he said, "I welcome you!"

He hoped for a gust of wind, or a flicker of the candles; but there was nothing. Instead, he closed his eyes and imagined he was beckoning the spirits of the air to come and witness his ritual. When there was no physical manifestation, he satisfied himself that he didn't need to see evidence to believe the spirits were here.

In a small iron bowl, Marten lit a fire of kindling and dry brush. This he placed on the southern edge of the circle and beckoned the Spirits of Flame. This time, he believed his faith was answered with another low rumble beneath the earth. It threatened to knock over his bowl of fire. It wants to escape, he told himself without knowing why. He wasn't talking about the fire.

He took a second bowl and bid the Spirits of Water to join him and then took his place back in the center of the circle. He opened his grimoire - his magical journal and spellbook - to the right page and closed his eyes, imagining that the world was falling away. Only the circle remained - the circle and the Called Spirits (which he could see in his mind's eye, even if they didn't leave a mark on the "real" world), and the alter and himself.

"Great Father," he began in a bold voice, "Mother of All, I beseech thee to look down on this working with favor!"

The music from his roommate's bedroom grew louder, probably an attempt to drown out Marten's voice; but the young man in the black robe didn't care. He pushed all thoughts of it away, focusing on the wind chimes, on the circle, on the magick.

"I come here to a time that is not Time, in a place that is No Place-"

And to Marten, it seemed as though the Earth woke up. His entire room felt like it shifted six feet to the right, throwing him out of his circle and against the Cradle of Filth poster that hung beside his bookshelf. He struck the bookshelf with the side of his head and lost consciousness for a moment.

When he came to, he woke to a nightmare. It made him think of the earthquake ride he went on once in Florida.

"This can't be real," he cried, hearing for the first time, the screams of the students in the rooms around him.

As if in answer, the entire Eastern half of the building fell away into nothing. Marten clumsily got to his feat and inched his way toward that edge of his circle. Looking down into a chasm that had just been six stories of college dormitory and was now a fucking hole in the world - was too much. Water pipes and electric cables poured their contents all over each other.

Shane West - who'd been kind of a dick to Marten - but really didn't deserve it, lay spread eagle on his back in the raw earth. He wasn't wearing anything except his boxer shorts, and he shook and twitched and tried to scream. Marten wanted to scream too. When their eyes met, Shane's eyes pleaded with Marten, who now thought he must look ridiculous in his heavy, black robe and nothing else.

The heat of the fire started by Marten's candles and the small bowl he'd placed in his circle, broke into Marten's thoughts.

"Oh god," he said, turning his back to the ledge and facing the wall of flame that stood between him and the door. Not that the door would do him any good. The stairwell was in the eastern part of the building - buried beneath all the-

The sound that erupted from below him was unearthly. Low and loud and dark and deep - it was a cross between growl and a scream and a tornado and maybe Godzilla. Only that last one was probably right, even if the sound was off, because Marten turned around and saw it.

Not Godzilla. Definitely not the Spirit of the Earth; but some Thing. Marten understood why Lovecraft always said people went insane when they saw the monsters. This was surely one of the Great Old Ones he'd read about in those stories that hadn't really scared him until now.

It was too big to be real. Too-

Marten's vision started to shut down and his head suddenly felt light. He swooned and fell from the ledge; but the shock of the fall - even in the face of this monstrosity - jolted him awake, and he screamed as he toppled over the edge.

He glimpsed something massive and black move beneath him, and he understood that no matter how big he'd thought it was, he was only looking at the surface of it. It wasn't possible. There was no way in hell there could be more of the thing; bit it was starting to come up out of the earth.

An arm, or a limb - or something - the size of a skyscraper reached out to catch him, but the fall was too far and he heard bones break when he struck the hard scaled flesh. It was all too much. He wanted to cry out, but only wept, pleading with this Ancient God. What else could it be? The magick he was trying to believe in was real, and now he was looking at the proof of it.

"Please don't kill me," he begged, trying to turn over in the Ancient Thing's massive paw, but unable to do so. This time he did cry out in pain as broken bones moved within his broken flesh and tore new holes in him.

The Great Old One - or whatever it was - tossed Marten aside like a toy, and he landed in a large puddle of mud formed by the water main and the sewer pipe. His breath caught in his throat and he knew he was going to die. There was nothing he could do about it. There was too much pain. Too much... everything.

"Please," he whimpered. "I want to live."

WP - 002 Perfected Love

Every day, I go to "new" page of reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts (I apologize in advance if you were previously unaware of Reddit) where I select the latest prompt - whatever it is - and write it out.  I've decided to post those here.  Hope you enjoy it.  Today's Story is:

PERFECTED LOVE

"Welcome, Mr. Johnson."  The woman was dressed smartly - a suit with a skirt and a blood-red tie.  She wore no jewelry; but then, who did these days?  Her hair was short and she wore no make-up.  Aesthetically, Simeon found her to be quite pleasing.  He wondered if his bride would be as attractive.

"Falicitous greetings," he bowed curtly.  "You are Ms. Hanover?"

"Mrs." She said.  When Simeon failed to mask his surprise, she added, "part of the conditions of my contract with PerfectedLove was that I agree to a match myself."  She motioned to the desk behind her, and the two sat down.

Simeon leaned forward, placing his hands on the empty surface of the desk.  "Do you enjoy it," he asked.  "Is it worth it, I mean?"

Mrs. Hanover smiled, "Mr. Johnson, I'm here to facilitate your Union.  I could hardly tell you otherwise."

He shrugged.  "Of course," he said.  "But even if you intend to lie to me, I think I would benefit from your perspective.  You were looking for a job, right?  Not Love or marriage?"

"That is correct," she said.  Her hands were folded in her lap.  "My perspective... The interesting thing about PerfectedLove, Mr. Johnson, is that it doesn't rely on pre-existing chemical processes to work.  My husband is a powerful man.  I remember a time before I loved him, when I believe I was intimidated by the prospect of meeting him.

"I remember he was cordial, curt.  Aesthetically pleasing - healthy, I mean - with no obvious deformities.  You've already been through the Training Program; all of the things you think about, I assume I also dwelled upon."

"Except that It was Mr. Hanover in my position."

"Of course."

"Well," he said, taking a deep breath.  "Is there anything we need to do?"

"No, actually.  Everything has been arranged.  Your provider is in the next room.  We'll sit with her and go over the contract.  If both parties are amenable to the arrangement, then we'll sign the contract, and by the end of the day you will be happily married, and madly in love with your bride."

"If both parties are amenable?  So if she finds me unappealing or-"

"Oh no, no," she said. "it's just a formality.  This is the 21st century, Mr. Johnson.  With genetic screening, the advent of CustomPhysiQ and modern cosmetic biology - we find that physical attraction isn't even an issue.  Even if you don't find the other party to be aesthetically pleasing, the presence of LP9 in your system will rewire your preferences to find her more favorable - the most favorable option.  The same goes for the other party.  It's all in the contract."

"Okay," he said.  "Let's do this."  His heart was racing.  It was...

It was the most emotion he'd felt in his entire life.  "I..."

"It's nerves," she assured him, offering her hand as he stood.  "We call them 'wedding jitters' after an old pre-war tradition.  For some reason its one chemical reaction that resisted the Wipe."

"It's amazing!"  He smiled broadly.  "Will it always feel like this?"

"Fortunately no," she said, leading him through a pair of powder blue doors off to the right.  "Actually, we find it best to give the initial LP9 injection after the initial emotional response wears thin.  It's why the contract negotiation process is done here, today - and not something you can do during the Training Program or from home."

She led him down a spartan hallway with dark blue carpeting and off-white walls.  They passed two doors on either side, before she motioned him through the third door on the left.

Within the small office, there was a short desk and three chairs.  Sitting in the chair opposite the door was a young woman - though only slightly younger than Simeon.  Her hair was long and curly, chestnut brown.  She sat upright, with her hands folded in her lap, her legs crossed at the ankle.  She stood up as they entered.  Her expression was hard to read, and then Simeon realized she must be feeling the 'wedding jitters' as well.

"Mr. Simeon Johnson," Mrs. Hanover said, gesturing toward the woman, "this is Seong Hera."

The woman curtsied and he responded with a bow.  "It is a pleasure, of course."

The three sat down.  And the contract came up on the screen.  The negotiations were tedious and long.  Each page of the contract required a number of thumbprints in acceptance - a lot of legal stuff.  Simeon agreed to provide a home for Ms. Hera.  He would share all his property with her, and in the unlikely event of a LP9 rejection, he would agree to a 50/50 split of all holdings.

He would give her children and agree to LP4 injections should his biology not generate the proper paternal response.  He would care for her children as he cared for her.  They would be guaranteed a place in his home and under his care until such time as they chose to leave - or until the 21st anniversary of their birth if it proved a hardship.

Ms. Hera's part of the contract was equally long, but primarily dealt with her acceptance of the agreement, and her willingness to submit to no less than three LP9 injections, in return for the financial and social security provided by Mr. Johnson.

There was an addendum for everything - from acceptance of hobbies to an agreement about location stability and joint assessment of any major decisions.  That part, Mrs. Hanover added, was purely for legal reasons, and in practice was unnecessary.

In the end, they both placed their hands on the palm reader and voiced their agreement.  The door opened again, and a young man in white came into the room with a small black box.

"This is Howard," Mrs. Hanover said.  "He'll be administering the injections."

Howard was a consummate professional, performing his task quickly and efficiently.  When he was finished, Mrs. Hanover stood.

"Alright," she said.  "It is now necessary to separate the two of you for a brief period.  We find it expedites things if we go ahead and have you change into your wedding attire.  When you're done, we'll all step into the Chapel, where you'll be given a half-hour or so to explore your new feelings.  You will be monitored during this period, so we encourage you to avoid engaging in any sexual activity.  It will be unusually difficult for you.

"The initial onset of PerfectedLove will be euphoric - like the wedding jitters amplified ten-fold."  She motioned them out of the room.  "As you learned in Training, the rush of emotion will fade to a background - though ever-present emotion that will thereafter color your every decision and desire.  And of course, we offer discounted renewal injections on your 10th, 25th, 50th, and 100th anniversaries.  Please, step right into these dressing rooms..."

WP 001 - Braineater

Every day, I go to "new" page of reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts (I apologize in advance if you were previously unaware of Reddit) where I select the latest prompt - whatever it is - and write it out.  I've decided to post those here.  Hope you enjoy it.  Today's Story is:

Braineater

The room is small. I hate being in here. I'm not claustrophobic or anything. I just hate the smell of the place. One large two-way mirror in the wall by the door. The room on the other side is empty. No one really likes what I do. Even Detective Benson despises me.

A single light hangs down from the ceiling, over the desk. The man on the other side of the desk looks clean-cut, all-american if he wasn't in the orange jumpsuit. He's smirking. I almost feel sorry for him; but my stomach gurgles. I'm really hungry.

We step into the room and I stand by the door. Detective Benson just stares at the man. Then she walks over the to camera and unplugs it.

"What's this going to be," the man says, "good cop - bad cop?"

"No," she sits down across the table from the man. "My name is Detective Benson." She motions to me. "His name is D. Jason Wright. Have you heard of him?"

"No."

She sighs, "that's too bad. This usually goes better for you assholes if you know what you're facing. Well, let me tell you what's going on."

He smiles. She ignores him. "You have kidnapped a man named Abby Lee - sometimes goes by "Ratso." We know this because you've told us you have him. You came here with some kind of twisted agenda and a deadline, because you think this is some kind of fucking movie, and you're some kind of super villain. You are not."

He snorts in derision.

"He is a super villain." She motions to me again. "You probably didn't recognize the name because it's not often published. The newspapers call him Braineater."

He swallows hard and stares at me, his eyes are wide. I can smell the fear in him almost immediately. Dammit!

"You've heard of him," she says, "good. I think that means you're going to cooperate with us. You see, me? I'm morally opposed to what he does. It disgusts me on a physical, a spiritual, an emotional level; but with the Henderson act he got a pardon, and the State decided to put him to work.

"Thankfully, I figured out how to convince you assholes we're serious, so I don't have to sit here and watch him open your head and get the-"

"It's a barn on County Road 319. There's a key under a white rock behind the rose-bush just left of the door. He's tied to a wooden post in the back of the barn. The bomb is on a simple timer. My cellphone has a countdown timer app running on it. Plenty of time to save him. If you don't know how to disable the bomb, cut the white wire. I'm willing to confess to everything, please - call the D.A. in here and I'll sign anything you want."

"Damnit." I mutter under my breath. Benson smirks and gives me a nod letting me know I can leave. She's too good. I should never have agreed to this.

I'm so hungry.